


Memento Mori

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Perfume: The Story of a Murderer - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Murder, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny Lafitte is a master perfumer who only needs one more ingredient to complete his life's work - the scent of Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for SRS2013. The [prompt](http://srs2013.dreamwidth.org/3647.html?thread=26943#cmt26943) was _very specific_ in their desires, so please be warned that this story isn't for everyone. There is no happy ending here.
> 
> Also, there are spoilers for _Perfume_ by Patrick Suskind, if you haven't read that.

He remembered the first time he had caught the scent - beneath the pervasive, fleshy aroma of the butcher shop, beneath the overlaying of gunpowder and the metallic hints of blood and steel, there was that something else. The lure. The perfect ingredient. This scent, this walking ambergris in human form, he had to follow it - and Benny did.

He was always excellent at following since no one ever noticed him at all - ironically, for a man who had been born in a fishmonger’s stall, Benny had no scent of his own.

Many a day had he looked at the other twelve essences, sitting on his shelf in their tiny glass jars - perched on the brink of immortality that only he, Benny Lafitte, the best perfumist the world has ever known (because if you weren’t willing to kill for your art, then why did you even bother), could bring to them. The empty thirteenth jar sat on the shelf, awaiting its occupant, and Benny had often tried to picture her as she would appear, all softness and curves, and maybe a basket full of apples, the blossoms of spring upon her virginal cheek.

No, John Winchester’s eldest son was none of those things.

Falsifying his letters of credible reference in order to get hired on at the Winchester household was hard; the rest was easy, for Benny had always had what the merchant folk he grew up with would teasingly refer to as an “honest face.” He had selected a special perfume of his own concoction that day, the one he always wore on the days when he needed to give off a semblance of staunch ordinariness.

He spent hours cleaning the smell of gunpowder and horse shit out of his young master’s clothes, avoiding the distrustful glares from the youngest Winchester, as he softly whistled his favorite tune and moved over to shine Dean’s boots.

 _Dean._ The secret ingredient of Divine perfection had a name.

Benny remembered each time his immaculate nose would catch it in the air, wafting through to the very core of his soul (which he figured was roughly in his sinuses). The times he’d catch Dean’s eye, the times he’s accidentally (on purpose) brush up against him in the pantry, the time he’d bury his nose in the threadbare lining of Dean’s favorite shirt and inhale until his head spun out of orbit. Yes - this was the perfect ingredient for the thirteenth vial.

The night he had decided to consummate his passion and his task, Benny had selected a whole different essence to wear. He had mixed in bits of three of his oil jars, the ones he thought resembled the kinds of women Dean Winchester was usually attracted to, adding to it pieces of honey-smoked bacon and apple pie. Distilling the resultant scent had to be done in a hurry and under the cover of night, but Benny was very well versed in such expedited preparation of potions. 

He smelled of sheer desire and the safety of the mother’s own breast as he let himself into Dean’s bedroom that night. Without his clothes to stifle his innate fragrance, Dean was spread out like an olfactory feast for Benny’s delight. He bolted the door, set his supplies aside, and approached the bed on soundless feet.

“Sam, that you?” his young master stirred from sleep.

“No, m’lord.”

Even in the darkness, Benny could tell that Dean’s nostrils had flared and his eyes widened. Unperceived by him, the eldest Winchester son had succumbed to the odiferous potion hidden on Benny’s skin.

“Benny?” Dean’s voice hitched a little in his throat, so Benny thought he’d help the lord out by sitting down onto the mattress and caressing that exposed neck column with the back of his hand. The rest logically flowed from there. 

If one could uncouple one’s scent from one’s taste, then even so Dean would have tasted of Paradise. Benny remembered that clearly. Remembered the way he craned his neck backwards, baring it to Benny’s teeth (because to simply kiss and lick wouldn’t have sufficed, he had to bite and mark and suck until aubergine bruises blossomed beneath his lips). Remembered the way he clawed at the skin underneath Benny’s shoulder blades with his blunt fingernails and the way he moaned and swore like a sailor when Benny’s clever mouth found the tender nubs of his nipples. Benny loved the way Dean writhed under him, the way he spread his thighs wide, wider still, as if Benny was the whole world and he wanted it inside him. Loved the way his hands skimmed along Dean’s opened thighs, trembling under his touch, and how each drop of sweat he’d coax out of the green-eyed beauty would only inflame him more, it palpitated with the aroma of what was to come, what he would distill out of this man, his prey, his quarry. Benny’s ears rang with the melodious sounds of Dean calling out his name, like the tolling of a bell, stroking him onwards in his purpose.

His nose was buried in the crook of Dean’s neck and the slight pooling of the sweat there. He used his roving mouth as an excuse, going as far as actually biting and licking the downy pelt of his master’s armpit, only so that he could have the excuse of burying his nose in there and inhaling the undeniable aroma that was pure _Dean_. He would have cried for joy, had Benny been capable of crying. Instead, he stabbed at his lover’s insides harder with his engorged cock, tearing more moans of wanton pleasure from his beautiful throat and lips.

He looked surprised when Benny strangled him. 

Benny remembered that too.

The extraction needed to take place before the others in the Winchester household could catch on that something was wrong. But that was all fine, after all, this was the thirteenth time Benny was doing this (not counting the practice runs). He quickly wrapped Dean’s limbs in the poultice-soaked rags, draping it carefully over each digit, each tuft of hair, he wanted - _needed_ \- all of Dean. This was everything. The final ingredient to making the most powerful odor in the world, his mellifluous masterpiece - and it was at Benny’s disposal at long last.

When the distilling was complete, Benny hid the flask in his pocket and went for the window. He’s always left the others as they were, mummified on the bedroom floor. But this time, something tugged at him, causing him to go back to the corpse. Rigor mortis had set in, but he didn’t care about that. Despite his better judgment, he wanted to see his last victim’s face one more time, and he reached for the bandages around Dean’s drained visage, pulling them away.

He was still beautiful. The violence of his death and everything that had been stolen from him hence had left little trace upon his features. He looked at peace. Benny sat down on the floor and cradled the pallid skin of Dean’s cheeks in his trembling palms.

“I’m so sorry, but it had to be you,” he whispered. He knew it was true - this was his life’s work. Years had been spent in pursuit of perfection, and now, he had it in the palms of his hands. Literally.

To create perfectly one had to destroy perfectly.

He could still taste the hint of Dean’s kisses upon his lips, still feel the red lines along his back ribs from where Dean’s bitten fingernails had dug into his flesh.

“You were so good to me,” he whispered. “You looked at me and saw me when no one else would.” He did not know if this last part was true or whether it was his own imagination playing tricks on him. That was the thing with Benny - no scent, no presence. Everyone looked but no one saw. Not even his own mother. But Dean did, or, at least, sitting there on the floor, stroking a murderous thumb over his master’s purpling lips, Benny wanted to believe that.

He remembers all this as he walks to the Place de Grève, wearing no scent but his own, innate Nothingness. He is alone again. They had captured him but let him go, fooled by the mindless adoration caused by his perfect perfume. He remembers Dean, the light snuffed out before his time, and with Benny’s own bare hands. He thinks of what it could’ve been like if only he’d waited a little longer. If only another one would have come along, one to kill, and one to hold on to. Dean was the one to hold on to, he had him in his hands, and he … he squeezed.

Benny Lafitte empties the bottle of perfume over himself and stands facing the crowd of thieves, whores and miscreants. In a few minutes, it will be over. He will be consumed, and in his death they will know their only true act of Love.


End file.
